


Familiar and Yours

by theproseofnight



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Clexa Week 2018, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 23:24:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13868187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theproseofnight/pseuds/theproseofnight
Summary: Lexa sees her every Wednesday and Sunday. Same seat, same hot chocolate. Same beautiful blue eyes. They’ve never met before. But it feels like they have. Something so familiar about her.ORAn elaborate excuse to rewrite the traveller’s passage as something more hopeful, in honour of Lexa and the two year anniversary. My homage to Clarke and Lexa, and the persistence of love.





	Familiar and Yours

**Author's Note:**

> A day late for Clexa Week 2018 — Free Day. Nonetheless, here is my response to March 3rd in an attempt to give Clarke and Lexa back the beginning they deserve. Written with Sleeping at Last playing in the background. Some lyrics (and cheese) might have slipped in.
> 
> Note: It gets angsty towards the end, starting at, “And then it happens.” But it is resolutely, steadfastly, a happy ending.

 

*********

 

Lexa sees her every Wednesday and Sunday.

Same seat, same hot chocolate. Same beautiful blue eyes.

Today she’s wearing jeans and an oversized knitted sweater, looking a lot more everyday than the scrubs she typically dons, attractive either way.

Despite the casual and relaxed air about her, the circles around her eyes remain, a little darker perhaps. Maybe she had a rough night at the hospital. Lexa can only surmise, never having had an actual conversation with the presumed nurse or doctor.

The blonde is curled in on an armchair, her knees tucked to her chest, arms wrapped around legs, and holding up a heavy-looking book with both hands. Her mug sits momentarily untouched on a side table. She’s absorbed in her reading, oblivious to the hubbub of Sunday activity around them. The flag football game across the street had just ended, bringing excited chatter from the park into the tiny corner café that struggles to accommodate their mirth.

Hearty laughs and congratulatory pats on the back mix with the sounds of espresso brewing and plates setting. The bell above the door dings constantly as customers rush in and out with their lattes or mochas or double doubles.

The quiet reader doesn’t pay any of it or them attention, least of all her admirer three tables over.

They’ve never met before. But it feels like they have. There is something so familiar about her. Lexa can’t quite place a finger on it.

She wouldn’t put reincarnation off the table. Having taken a college intro course on world religions and different faith systems, she knows the world can work in mysterious ways. It was a surprisingly enjoyable elective to complement her comparative English Lit major—and opened her up to the multitudes of the universe and how some phenomenon are simply beyond human understanding.

But it’s not that. At least she doesn’t think it is. It feels more immediate than reincarnation, the sense of familiarity too current, recent, for it to be another lifetime.

She doesn’t think it’s soulmates either, though the romantic in her would like it to be. Had they been soulmates, it wouldn’t have taken Lexa a month to brave a hi.

It’s been a year and a half since she can remember being with anyone. The length of time out of the dating game was likely the cause of nerves preventing her from approaching the pretty girl. The pretty girl who had stopped her dead in her tracks when she entered the café for the first time on a Wednesday.

Literally stopped.

Lexa had nearly bumped into her but swerved at the last second to avoid the head-on collision. Swift apologies were exchanged followed by an extended period of eye contact. For those stretched out minutes, the girl peered deeply into Lexa’s eyes, and she felt something click. She didn’t know about reincarnation or soulmates but for a split second, she felt the breath of the universe expand in her lungs—as _if_ the universe had just been made to be seen through those eyes.

Things had been foggy for Lexa lately and bumping into the blonde felt like her world crystallised for one brief moment, waking her up from a dream and an endless spinning.

But then the blonde had left in a rush before Lexa had time to consider dreams and supernovas bursting into life, or more practically, before she could think of introducing herself. As the runaway hurried past her out the door, Lexa noticed a slight sheen to her gaze.

She wondered what could have made such beautiful eyes look so sad.

The brief encounter stayed with her, and the reason she returned every few days to the café.

It took another two weeks before she saw the girl again. The second time it happened was when the scrubs first appeared, along with several books and concentrated furrow brows, that would later become permanent fixtures. Lexa hadn’t wanted to disrupt the studious scene.

Days and weeks and excuses later, she never found the right opportunity, or adequate amount of courage, to make her move.

Looking at the girl in the café now, her hair messily tied up in a lopsided bun and looking as comfortable in the lounge area as though it were her living room, Lexa thinks maybe it’s finally time.

—

“You’re the one with a book.”

Lexa has no idea why those words came out of her mouth. Strung together, they barely qualify as a sentence, let alone a pickup line.

 _Smooth_. Maybe that’s why she hasn’t had a girlfriend in awhile. She receives a quirked eyebrow as a reward for her rustiness.

She wants a do-over but it’s too late as the blonde untucks her knees and puts the book—the subject of contention—down on the table in front of her, offering Lexa her full attention. Lexa feels exposed with the long look that she’s given in lieu of a response. It’s not a bad stare, but it is penetrating. Enough to restart the thrum of familiarity that’s just a little out of reach.

The girl eyes the hardcover and then Lexa before giving her a quiet smile. She’s about to say something when Lexa preempts her rebuttal.

“Actually, do you mind …” The small smile turns into confused pursed lips when Lexa goes to grab her book and hand it back to her, “if you could just reposition yourself like before?”

The blonde humours the odd request, retrieving her hardcover and re-tucking herself. Her lips curl more fully in amused curiosity over Lexa’s intent at resetting the scene.

Once she’s back in place, Lexa smiles shyly at her. “Great, one second,” she says, then takes slow, deliberate steps backwards to her table, her eyes not leaving the blonde.

Who says she can’t turn back time.

Lexa takes a fortifying breath when she reaches her starting point, feeling the wood of the table against the back of her legs, and gathers strength from its sturdy support. She waits a beat before retracing her walk. When she arrives in front of the girl again she’s greeted with a pair of bright eyes that has been tracking the whole journey.

“Hi, I’m Lexa,” she says while gesturing to the book in hand, “if what you’re reading is a guide on how to say hi to pretty girls, do you mind if I borrow it after you’re done?”

The pretty girl bursts out laughing.

“I don’t think you need it.”

Lexa smiles, proud her perseverance is paying off. And then laughs outright herself when she reads the actual title of the book. _Where to Drink Coffee._

“And I don’t think you need to finish that to find out the answer,” Lexa says, waving a hand indicating their present location.

“It’s more of a travel guide to where the world’s best baristas go for a cup of coffee. 600 spots in 50 countries.”

“Ah, _grounds for celebration_ ,” Lexa reads the subtitle with a tilt of her head, grinning.

“Did you know that Kopi Luwak is the world’s most expensive coffee? A one pound bag of beans can cost up to $600. It’s shit.”

“That’s a strong statement.”

“No, literally. The beans come from the poop of a weasel. It’s a big hit in Bali.”

“Ok, well. Bali is off of my bucket list.” The smile hasn’t left Lexa’s face, even as she’s scrunching her nose. It widens further when the blonde beckons her to come in closer like she’s about to reveal a secret.

“I don’t even like coffee,” she whispers conspiratorially.

Lexa laughs again, taking a seat opposite at the offered hand.

“Hi, I’m Clarke.”

“Lexa.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Have we met before? You look so familiar.”

“I liked your other line better,” Clarke teases, her words and smirk painting a dash of pink on Lexa’s cheeks. Her smile becomes quiet again when she follows up with, “but if we had met, than I would remember.”

—

Clarke is funny and kind, and has the biggest heart. Lexa learns all this every Wednesday and Sunday, and sometimes when she can, she sneaks in a Monday and a Friday too.

Clarke is a resident interning at the nearby paediatric clinic, and spends her spare time studying for her upcoming boards camped out at the café.

They bond over books, even if Lexa’s favourites fall more on the fictional side while Clarke’s on the coffee table variety. Clarke is unapologetic about her lighter choice, what with all the medical journals she has to keep up with, she prefers to dedicate her leisure reading to fluff.

Notes on Virginia Woolf are exchanged for the backstory of virgin wool and the trade wars fuelled by the textile fibre.

They get to know each other over steaming cups of hot chocolate and soya latte. Lexa listens intently, even if it’s a random fact from some far-flung corner of the world about the proper fleecing technique. She collects every tidbit of information like she does with the crumbs of her apple crumble to savour them for later. If only to hear the husk of that voice, and let the scratch of its grit settle into her bones.

It’s another typical Wednesday evening at the café. Clarke had paused her studying and Lexa her writing to chitchat about stories from their youth.

They’re at a table this time, sat across from one another. In her rush out of her apartment earlier, Lexa had forgotten to pack an extra layer, and had been cold sitting by Clarke’s usual lounge spot near the windows. Clarke noticed the shivers and wordlessly moved their things to a table in the centre of the room, citing the need for a larger surface to spread out her books. Lexa had smiled shyly knowing Clarke’s real motivation was for her benefit, to distance themselves away from the draft. Her quiet appreciation turned into full gratitude when Clarke pulled an extra sweater out of her bag and, again, wordlessly handed it to Lexa.

It’s a pullover with a graphic of a cat bucking atop a blonde-haired unicorn while wielding a multi-coloured light sabre, with a rainbow in the background and fire breath coming out of the unicorn’s nostrils. Lexa does not own anything as colourful or insane but proudly sported it for the laughter it had induced in Clarke, if not the warmth she felt. She also liked the faint scent of lavender that must be Clarke’s laundry detergent. It smells as familiar as is the sight of a particular shade of blonde hair.

“You had a fish named Dog?” Lexa laughs, shaking her head while watching blue eyes brighten at the mention of her childhood pet and its unconventional name, the subject spring-boarding from talk of cats and unicorns.

“My dad thought he was funny,” Clarke explains and then corrects Lexa’s mistake, “and it’s, I _have_ , not had. Dog’s a Japanese Koi fish, and is still with me. They can live up to forty.”

“That’s amazing. How old is Dog?”

“Fourteen, almost half my age. But he’s a baby compared to Hanako, the world’s oldest koi fish, who lived to 226.”

Lexa doesn’t have time to express her incredulity. Clarke suddenly gets out of her seat unannounced, the abruptness momentarily confusing. The reason quickly becomes apparent, and nerve-inducing. Lexa’s breath hitches when the blonde scoots her chair to sit closely next to her, breaching into her personal space unbidden as she pulls out her phone to tap on a few photos.

“There, that’s him,” she says, pointing and swiping.

“Very handsome.”

Dog is mostly white with orange colouring and is definitely the best looking pet fish Lexa’s ever seen—one of the largest too—but she has to stifle her laughter at the number of identical photos on Clarke’s phone. The distinction between Dog and a real dog is that the koi doesn’t do much, so every pose, at least to Lexa, looks the exact same. Mouth open, mouth close, are the only differences she can confidently make out.

“He is, isn’t he. So beautiful,” Clarke says, full of pride looking at her screen.

Blonde hair is pulled to one side over her shoulder so that Lexa can get a better look, but the thoughtful gesture counterproductively exposes the side and nape of her neck that distracts Lexa from the intended view.

Lexa can’t keep her eyes on anything but Dog’s owner and the small expanse of soft skin that’s a nose-graze away. She feels sympathy goosebumps seeing the raised surface reacting to the minor chill in the room. The urge to smooth them over and warm them with her lips is so strong she has to avert her gaze to Clarke’s profile.

That proves to be an even bigger mistake. From this angle, the beauty mark is almost an assault on Lexa’s restraint. Clarke turns her head, and a breath would be stolen from Lexa’s lungs if she hadn’t already been running on such a depleted supply.

She doesn’t care it’s cliché when she locks eyes with the would-be thief and concurs, “yeah, beautiful.”

It’s an intimate confession, giving voice to the unspoken, and hinting at latent and quietly simmering possibilities.

They had slipped so easily into friendship despite the success of Lexa’s clumsy pickup line that all romantic intentions were put on the back burner. Even on the lowest setting though, Lexa is reminded of the heat when Clarke looks at her with the kind of warmth she is now.

Yet, Lexa couldn’t regret missing the small window of opportunity for something more between them, not when every moment with Clarke felt like a summer night out on the porch with beer and laughter as company, and the stars smiling down and shining more brightly seeing the curves of lips reflected back at them.

She feels such a keen sense of belonging whenever they’re huddled in the back corner of the café, leaned into each other on the couch. The barista goes to generous lengths to reserve their spot with how frequent the pair would be found there.

A deep feeling of being right where she needs to be flows over every cup Lexa drinks.

—

Needless to say, her crush deepens. The more time she spends with Clarke in the coffee shop, the worst it gets.

It’s become increasingly harder to concentrate on Clarke’s stories of the latest cute things the kids are up to at the clinic. She finds it difficult to pay attention to anything other than the bow of those lips.

She tries anyways, giving the doctor prideful nods and due awe over her week’s triumphs. Clarke humbly dismisses Lexa’s admiration of her heroic status among tiny humans as simply being a glorified bandage applier and cough syrup dealer. She had done her more challenging rotations at the hospital, and was finishing up her last general practice hours at the clinic.

It’s during the middle of an animated retelling of the latest unfortunate toy part found in a toddler’s regurgitation of yesterday’s lunch that Lexa blurts out the question she’s been working up the last hour to ask.

“Do you like cheese?”

“What?” Clarke asks, caught off guard by the interruption.

“Cheese. There’s this cheese-making class coming up, and I got free tickets through the publisher. I thought if you weren’t busy next Saturday, we could do it together.”

A half lie. The tickets were free, but they weren’t exactly easy to come by. Lexa’s publishing agent had a pair she couldn’t use because of a last minute engagement. Surprisingly her sister didn’t give them to her immediately when Lexa asked for them, explaining who she’d like to take. Surprising because Anya had been enthusiastic about the doctor when Lexa first started mentioning her, and though they hadn’t met yet, she seemed receptive of their developing relationship.

Maybe Anya was just trying to save her from her own cheesy tendencies when it comes to courting, but Lexa had to barter with the elder Woods for the short evening course on homemade artisan cheese. She had only recently started picking up her writing again and was in no position to negotiate with her sister/agent but for some reason she thought cheese would make for a good first date. In exchange, she capitulated to offering a few draft pages in advance of an already passed deadline.

A pregnant pause as the offer hangs in the air between them.

Clarke is looking at her curiously. Lexa is accustomed to these intermittent puzzled gazes by now and aren’t usually affected by them. But this time, the prolonged silence doesn’t help her already nervous anticipation of an answer.

“I would love to Lexa,” Clarke says slowly. Lexa’s smile, however, is cut short from forming when she finishes her sentence, “but I have a dairy allergy. I … I don’t eat cheese.”

Hearing the apologetic tone, and despite her own disappointment, Lexa would rush to reassure her it’s not a big deal but she’s uncertain of how to read Clarke’s expression. The blonde looks disappointed too that cheese is figuratively off the plate, but there’s also a hint of sadness underneath her gaze.

Along with the curious looks, a melancholy resides behind Clarke’s eyes sometimes. It’s often covered by bright smiles but Lexa has gotten to know her well enough to detect when they don’t quite reach her eyes.

Their friendship so far has been kept light with quick-fire banter and a shared humour for ridiculous internet memes. They hadn’t touched on any heavy topics yet that would disclose to Lexa why the invisible weight Clarke carries would sometimes make an appearance.

She’s half-way racking her brain on how to rescind her barter with Anya so she doesn’t have to actually write those pages she’d pledged, when Clarke perks up.

“I can eat bread. My love isn’t quite as strong as Oprah’s but I do like bread.”

“Me too,” Lexa says, glad for the smile again. She picks up the thread and readily comes up with an alternative proposal, “so, a bread making class?”

Clarke nods eagerly, the previous cloud replaced by excitement. “Yeah, I think Lost-in-Loaf bakery offers a sourdough workshop.”

—

They end up taking the three day course and learn about wild yeast baking, starters, and all the ins-and-outs of the fermentation process.

Lexa has always been a proponent of higher education and thoroughly enjoyed her college years. But over an extra long weekend, she learns that Atwood and Kafka and Vonnegut have nothing on mixing and proving and bread making with Clarke.

It’s the best class she’s taken, and not for the fundamental skills she’s gained for working with dough, or for their haul of rye loaf, focaccia, brown levain, no-knead loaf, a baguette, and fougasse by the end of the course.

It’s the best class for being a reasonable excuse to justify inviting Clarke to her apartment for the first time—and for her newfound appreciation of flour on the tip of a cute nose.

Flour that eventually finds its way on cheeks and the side of necks when one afternoon, two weeks later from their time at Lost-in-Loaf, she has Clarke’s body pinned against her kitchen counter, while waiting on the oven after they’ve successfully recreated a walnut and fig sourdough.

Clarke had excitedly called Lexa saying she’d found a vintage dutch oven at a yard sale, the covered earthenware similar to the ones used at the bakery. She thought it’d be perfect for testing their potential careers as home bread makers. Lexa gladly offered up her place and eletric oven.

That’s how she finds herself pressed against Clarke, an hour and a half after prepping the dough into a round loaf inside the dutch oven and then popping it into the larger oven to bake.

Lexa’s original intention in coming in close had been to sweep away the powder substance that had landed in Clarke’s hair, dusting the gold with white highlights.

Instead, when she goes to reach for the hair, hands come to rest on her hips to stop her movement and redirect her attention to a different goal. Clarke is looking at her with such deep want that makes any other task but returning the gaze impossible. Needing to break from its intensity, and drawing bravery from some unknown spring, Lexa tips her head forward to lay a tender kiss on Clarke’s nose, brushing her lips softly to remove the white residue.

The gasp she earned outweighs any fleeting concern of tasting uncooked flour. She would eat the entire bag uncooked if it would always lead to Clarke’s next actions.

The grip on her sides tighten, followed by a measured breath this time, before Clarke tilts her head, a millimetre of adjustment that creates the perfect angle to slide her lips against Lexa’s.

If Lexa thought Clarke seemed familiar before, kissing her feels like a homecoming. She doesn’t know how, but her lips and tongue move in sync with their counterparts as if they’ve been doing this for centuries. They simply know how soft to bite or how hard to swipe, when to be more firm or less shy, which push and pull would cause a whimper or elicit a moan.

Clarke kisses her like she is the last drop of water and crumb of bread, parched and hungry. There is so much need in the way her tongue moves against Lexa’s, insistent in communicating in a secret language of brushes and licks and presses that Lexa somehow understands, and ardently reciprocates.

Finding Clarke’s mouth again and again feels like Lexa is a stream that has reached the ocean, and she just wants to swim in its depths. Happy for the current to carry her wherever it wants.

Lexa could keep kissing her forever like this but the feel of wetness against her cheek reluctantly pulls her away. She’s surprised and alarmed to find tears having fallen on Clarke’s face, and immediately sweeps her thumbs to catch them.

Her gentleness seems to produce the reverse effect, causing more tears to fall. “Hey, it’s ok,” she changes tact and tries to comfort with a kiss to the moist cheek area. That doesn’t help either.

Clarke pants, trying to catch her breath.

“Am I that bad of a kisser?” Lexa asks, hoping to lighten the mood, yet still confused by the mixed signal when all else indicates that this is what Clarke wants.

“Not at all,” Clarke rushes to say, “I’m sorry.” She rises on her toes to give Lexa a sweet peck on the lips in advance of her reassurance, “these are not the problem. Well, I mean they are, but for the opposite reason …”

“So, those are _happy_ tears that I’m a good kisser?” Lexa asks, unsure if she should be concerned or congratulating herself.

“Gah, I’m sorry,” Clarke repeats, more self-deprecatingly, while trying to hold back a few new tears that are threatening to well over, “I’m not usually the girl who cries after a kiss. It’s just … I’ve been waiting so long to do that.”

She adorably tucks her head under Lexa’s chin, hiding her embarrassment but also transferring wetness to Lexa’s neck.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Lexa coos, kissing the top of her head while her hands gently comb through her hair, and holding her closer in place against her chest. After several minutes of quiet comfort, she cradles Clarke’s face in her hands, and repositions to rest their foreheads against each other. With shortness of breath, she whispers, “me too.”

To confirm that the feeling is very much mutual, Lexa kisses her again. This time slower and more tender. Clarke’s arms wind around her waist, while Lexa presses her body impossibly closer, as they settle into a long and deep kiss.

As lips and heartbeats settle into a new rhythm, Lexa can’t help but feel the simmer turn into a burning.

She’s so irrevocably lost in love.

—

The same night, after a dinner of only bread and olive oil, filled up instead on the taste of wine-stained lips, things escalate well beyond a kiss. Having broken the intimacy barrier, and after three months of circling around each other, there was no reason to hold back.

A hot and dirtier than supposed to be make-out session on the couch later, they’re in Lexa’s bedroom with Lexa on her back as Clarke straddles her hips. Her head and upper body are propped up against her pillows. Clarke kisses down the column of her neck while her hands exploration for uncovered skin is making it impossible for Lexa to concentrate on removing the last items of Clarke’s clothing.

Lexa is already naked, Clarke apparently much better and faster at the disrobing portion of the night’s unexpected agenda.

Somehow she manages to finally take off Clarke’s bra, but maybe she should have taken a bit longer to give herself more prep time for the fucking devastating sight that greets her when the lace is gone.

“Jesus.”

Lexa immediately takes a breast in her mouth and laves at the hardened nipple, while she massages the other one in time to the flick of her tongue. She would go gentle and slow but with the feel of Clarke’s wetness against her abs as she rolls herself trying to find friction, Lexa can only think of squeezing the ass in her right hand harder to encourage the faster buildup.

Like their kissing earlier, her body simply knows what to do with Clarke’s without overt prompt. Hands and lips and tongue move and press and brush and stroke like they have already been briefed of the actions. Instinct seems to take over, which might be a good thing because if Lexa had to think through each act they might not have made it past her couch.

Clarke’s moans reverberate against her throat, and Lexa answers them by slipping her fingers around the butt cheek in hand, between thighs, and dipping into the moist folds they find.

“Lexa, please,” Clarke pants, “inside.” She punctuates her request by interrupting Lexa’s work on her breast to give a dirty kiss full of tongue that leaves Lexa breathless and with no choice but to comply.

It’s an awkward angle with her hand positioned behind, and she has to clumsily push the fabric down Clarke’s thighs for it not to be in the way, but she knows her efforts are worth it when Lexa feels Clarke enveloping her two fingers. So wet and warm. She has to take a second to remind herself to breath, as monumental of a task as that has been in the last hour and with a naked Clarke riding her.

She pushes further in tentatively, testing the give but when she finds no resistance, she doesn’t hesitate to set a pace that pulls filthy moans out of Clarke and has Lexa rubbing her own thighs in jealousy.

“Baby, I’m not going to last long,” Clarke voices her impending orgasm, too wrapped up in her chase for it to notice the slip of the pet name.

It didn’t escape Lexa though, and the affection the term ignites in her chest has her doubling her efforts, adding a third finger, and thrusting more purposefully.

Clarke is rocking on top of her, hands buried in Lexa’s hair and pushing her head back to her breast to resume its prior activity. Lexa greedily takes the peak into her mouth again, sucking it with as much enthusiasm as her addled brain can muster.

“Lexa, faster … please,” Clarke’s plea is followed by instructive demonstration of speeding up her hips. Lexa’s fingers try to keep up.

With the way Clarke is careening towards her climax and wanting to take Lexa with her, she needs to do something about her own arousal or risk combustion. Bracing her legs, in a swift move, she flips them so that Clarke is now on her back.

Before Clarke has time to register the momentary loss of contact, Lexa is back inside, the three fingers continuing their pumping without skipping a beat. In this new position, Lexa can use Clarke’s thigh to alleviate the tension between her legs. Clarke doesn’t seem to mind her selfish act and lifts her leg to be helpful. But then a breath is knocked out of Lexa altogether when she feels fingers inside of her. Clarke must have slipped them in while Lexa was busy trying to spread herself for a better angle.

Lexa sighs her immense relief and thanks into a kiss that’s gentler but no less shattering.

Their bodies slide against each other as their mutual thrusts and Lexa’s grinds increase in intensity. The slap of skin and their erratic breathing build the rush in her ears to deafening heights.

Two synchronous swipes of clit do it, breaking the sounds and them.

“Lexa …” is the last soft expel of her name she hears before Clarke is screaming it out in cries, and she follows seconds behind.

Maybe it’s because their first kiss was emotional that their first time having sex was more physical. Whatever the case Lexa has no complaints with the heady, buzzed feeling that’s currently preventing her limbs from moving and has her fully collapsed atop of Clarke.

The blonde weaves a hand through Lexa’s hair and softly traces her back with the other. The gesture so gentle and completely stark to what they had just been doing seconds ago.

They let minutes of silence bring them back down while catching their breaths and enjoying the feel of each other’s bodies. Lexa shifts a little so as not to crush Clarke with her weight.

“Are you going to cry again?”

“Shut up,” Clarke says as she hides into Lexa’s shoulder, biting her disapproval into warm skin. Lexa laughs and offers a kiss in apology.

Lexa really loves bread now.

This has been one of the best days that she can remember.

—

It doesn’t take much after that for Clarke to become her girlfriend, they were halfway there anyways with the excessive amounts of coffee dates already under their belt.

Their café activities continue as before and their mini book club of two remains a staple. But their dynamic does shift to include kisses and hand holding and unchecked starry gazes into each other’s eyes. Shy smiles are replaced with unbidden touches.

As Clarke pours over whatever textbook that has her brows furrowed and Grumpy Cat appearing, Lexa would do edits of her manuscript. Every so often a hand would blindly reach out to smooth out hair or squeeze a thigh. There’d be a kiss on the cheek, or when they got carried away, a kiss that’s longer and with more tongue than appropriate to share with the coffee-consuming public.

Sometimes the barista, who Lexa discovers is also the café owner, adds an extra bit of froth to Lexa’s latte and more cocoa dusting to Clarke’s hot chocolate. Having had a front row seat to their evolution as a couple, Raven feels generous when she catches them being adorable. Sometimes she would even join them if Clarke’s latest coffee table book involves anything to do with cars or engines.

“New glasses?” Raven asks after she sets their drinks down.

“Um, yeah,” Lexa says, self-consciously pushing the bridge of the rims up. “My old ones were starting to give me a headache so I got a new prescription and thought I’d change the frames as well.”

Puzzlingly, she receives twin looks of concern. Lexa didn’t think her eye care or eyewear would be that much of interest or cause for worry for anyone but her optometrist.

Clarke rubs the back of her neck and turns to her to sweetly ask, “you ok?”

Lexa nods and pats her knee, confused about the unnecessary concern. “Yeah, the new prescription is great.”

“Well, they look great,” Raven compliments, giving a suggestive raise of her eyebrows.

“Thanks,” Lexa demurs.

“Hey, stop hitting on my girlfriend.”

“What? They do. I like the whole tortoise thing you’ve got going there.”

“Hands off my nerd,” Clarke says laying claim to Lexa’s arm, making her laugh.

“Please, as if she sees anyone else behind those big rims.” Raven counters. None of them argue that.

As if the point needed to be proven, Lexa stares deeply into Clarke’s eyes.

“All the better to see you, love.”

Lexa’s eyes widen realising what she had just called Clarke. Thankfully, the slip is glossed over by Raven’s dependable sardonic humour.

“Barf,” Raven fakes gags. “That’s my cue to leave.”

Clarke slaps her ass as she walks by, both laughing.

Clarke and Raven have an easy-going rapport between them, their interactions full of the comfort and liveliness of old friends, even if they had only met around the same time that she and Clarke did. But maybe that’s Clarke’s gift, the openness of her heart that makes being around her so easy, so enjoyable, and feel like she’s known you forever.

Dating Clarke gives Lexa the same feeling. The sense of walking in a pair of old shoes, of knowing the steps and hitting the perfect stride.

—

Not all their time is spent inside of the café. But with Clarke’s hectic clinic hours and Lexa’s unpredictable schedule dictated by the whims of her writing muse, their outings are limited to a few favoured spots. The drive-in, the park, the little Portuguese restaurant serving grandmother-approved homemade cozido and caldo verde. They like to tuck into the weathered booths on chilly nights to warm up with the hearty broths.

Lexa’s favourite pastime though is simply on her couch with Clarke snuggled in by her side. They don’t go out as much lately anyways with Lexa’s headaches returning. Maybe this prescription is off as well. But she’s happy for the excuse of nights in if Netflix & Chill is on the itinerary.

A home-cooked meal, a movie and then drawing breathy moans and as many orgasms as they can out of each other will always sound like the perfect night to Lexa.

And whether the chill happens or not, she likes the domestic routine they’ve settled into, like an old married couple whose wants and needs are telegraphed before they’re even voiced aloud.

Clarke knows the right amount of butter drizzle Lexa likes on her popcorn before it reaches the tipping point of soggy and just plain gross. Lexa knows the exact number of Twizzlers Clarke can consume in one sitting before she curls herself up in a ball of regret and Lexa has to rub her belly to soothe the self-inflicted pain.

They both know they can’t watch horror movies after 9pm because neither of them would be able to sleep and would cling onto the other for dear life. They both have to be careful about starting new shows because neither of them have impulse control when it comes to binge-watching. Staying up until 4am to finish Stranger Things is okay for a writer who can sleep in and ignore the calls of her sister publisher, but not so much for a doctor who holds tiny lives in her hands.

Lexa doesn’t even know when Clarke had started staying over night. It’s become such a frequent occurrence that she doesn’t even realise she’s never been to Clarke’s apartment. Things with them have happened so effortlessly, every step of the way, that her presence in Lexa’s bed on most mornings is not questioned. Lexa’s apartment being closer to the café and Clarke’s clinic isn’t so much a logistical excuse anymore to extend their time together, it’s simply habit now to wake up in each other’s arms.

 _I love yous_ are exchanged in the same quotidian, uneventful way but just as meaningful as if they were declared in front of a crowd of family and friends under a steeple.

Lexa had opened her eyes in the middle of the night, awoken by a car alarm going off. She went to shut her bedroom window which helped to drastically reduce the offending noise. When she returned to her now-side of the bed, Lexa noticed the moonlight striking Clarke’s face in such a way that gave its normally stunning complexion an altogether ethereal quality. She looked so achingly gorgeous.

Lexa felt bad at first, but in that moment she felt the overwhelming need to wake her girlfriend just to tell her so.

“Clarke,” she tried softly at first but when no response came, she shook her a little and said more loudly, “Clarke, wake up.”

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Her eyes finally opened to reveal a blue so deep that Lexa could see the stars written across them, a universe stretched endless.

Once again, Lexa’s intentions were derailed by Clarke’s mere existence. What was supposed to be a romantic gesture of complimenting her girlfriend’s beauty at a ridiculous hour turned into a quiet confession of the most profound truth that Lexa has ever known. She didn’t know how to explain the infinite, but this was the closest she could come to it.

“I love you.”

Clarke blinked herself into wakefulness, only to let out a sigh that communicated, _you woke me up for this_. She gave Lexa a pat on her chest and a soft kiss to her lips before she closed her eyes again. She turned on her side and spooned herself in front of Lexa, falling back to sleep. A second passes before her reply filters back to Lexa’s ears, followed by light snores.

“I love you, too.”

The softest words but it knocked Lexa breathless anyways.

Life shouldn’t be this easy. Love should’t be this simple.

But it is.

With Clarke, it is.

Lexa smiles, letting that truth carry her back to sleep.

—

And then it happens.

One afternoon, on the first Saturday of March, Lexa’s world changes when she finds a ring in Clarke’s scrubs.

Six months in after their first meeting, after weeks of friendship, after countless dates and café drinks, and then days full of kisses and nights in shared warmth, Lexa comes across a ring when she goes to do their laundry while Clarke is at the clinic.

But it’s not an engagement ring. It’s a worn-in wedding band. A white gold band with an inscription—two simple words—that Lexa doesn’t understand.

She feels an acute pain and this time it’s not from the headache that had started to appear this morning.

Lexa hadn’t yet known what devastation and loss could feel like, but sitting there on her couch waiting for her girlfriend to come home, so that she can explain to Lexa what it is that she’s holding between her thumb and forefinger, all Lexa could think is that this isn’t it. It can’t be.

Because, how can she be devastated—experiencing severe grief over losing something, someone—when apparently they weren’t hers to lose in the first place.

Maybe it’s from her past, but why hasn’t Clarke ever told her about the ring, unless it’s still very much a part of her present.

Except for the throbbing in her head, Lexa feels numb. The pain in her temples distracts from the real pain. It’s the only reason the tears haven’t come yet.

She thinks of a different ring, one that sits in a different jacket pocket. The one that she had excitedly Skyped her sister about, because the agent had been on assignment overseas for the last three months working with her international authors.

Anya had looked both happy and concerned at the news, likely the latter because she hadn’t had a chance to meet Lexa’s would-be fiancé yet and give her big-sister speech. Or maybe she was concerned that they were moving too fast but Lexa had a ready-answer to defend just how right it feels with Clarke. Anya didn’t ask, however, and left it on well wishes that Lexa and Clarke will find their ever-after together.

A different ring, but one that is very much an engagement ring.

Lexa has lost track of the time when the door to her apartment finally opens. Two weeks ago, she had given her girlfriend a key, asking her to move in as a warmup to practice her proposal. Clarke was going to officially move in at the end of the month.

She sits frozen on the couch and doesn’t answer when Clarke calls out for her.

“Babe?”

Clarke comes into the living room, midway through unwrapping her scarf. She bends down to give Lexa a kiss on the cheek. Her smile immediately falls seeing Lexa’s blank face and lack of reaction. Worry immediately crosses Clarke’s expression as she sits across from Lexa on the coffee table.

“Lexa, what’s wrong? Is it your head?” She tries again but is met with another mute response. “Lexa? You’re scaring me.”

Lexa doesn’t say anything as she looks down at her hands which are curled in fists on her lap. Clarke follows her gaze, and then clasps her hand over her mouth to keep the gasp in when Lexa opens her palm to reveal the ring.

“You’re married?”

Lexa says more than asks, her tone even and not belying how unmoored she’d feel if it weren’t for the headache.

Her words are so small and quietly said, it might not have been heard had the room not become so eerily silent from Clarke’s shock and Lexa’s numbness. A feather dropping onto the floor could sound like kingdoms collapsing.

It’s an immeasurably long minute before the reply comes.

“Yes.”

Clarke’s lips and hands are trembling when she answers but her confirmation is firm.

Lexa wonders if she should give her points for honesty.

“I’ve never seen you wear it,” she says instead.

“It gets in the way at work.”

Lexa wants to laugh at the practicality of Clarke’s reason. But there is nothing funny about it. About any of this.

“You’ve been cheating with me?”

“No, Lexa,” Clarke immediately denies and reaches for Lexa’s hands. Lexa recoils from the touch. She draws back into the couch, looking down at the ring, and doesn’t see the flash of hurt on Clarke’s face from the rejection.

“Clarke, I don’t understand. This is a wedding ring. You’re married! How is that not cheating?”

When she looks back up to ask, she doesn’t miss this time how wet Clarke’s eyes have become. Her girlf—, Clarke has folded in on herself and looks so incredibly small that Lexa almost wants to apologise as if their roles are reversed and she’s not the suffering party here. She has to avert her gaze again for fear of reaching out and offering misplaced comfort.

Clarke heaves in a large breath and then says, “it’s not cheating, if I’ve been kissing my wife.”

Lexa snaps her head up. Not understanding.

“Lexa,” Clarke continues, but stops, broken by the crack in her voice.

Lexa’s head hurts and she’s having a hard time piecing things together. The pain in her head won’t stop but now there’s also a loud buzzing in her ear. Almost deafening.

“Lexa, I’m married to _you_.”

“I … I …” Lexa stammers, unable to process what she’s being told, “I don’t understand.”

“You have headaches?”

Clarke phrases it as a question but it sounds more like a statement. Lexa simply nods, unable to form words at this point.

“You were in a bad accident two years ago. Severe abdominal wound, you lost a lot of blood. Your heart gave out from the shock, and we lost—” Clarke pauses to wipe a tear that’s fallen. “We lost you for several minutes.”

Clarke buries her head in her hands.

“They were able to bring you back. Then it took hours of surgery to finally stop the bleeding. They put you in a medically induced coma afterwards while your body healed. When you woke up, it was discovered you had suffered a brain injury as well. The damage to your frontal cortex likely was caused when your head made impact against the glass on collision.”

Lexa stares blankly to the side. Her hand subconsciously touches her stomach. She doesn’t remember being in an accident but does feel the phantom pain there every so often. That’s the only bit of info she can relate to. The brain injury part is beyond her grasp.

“You have retrograde amnesia,” Clarke continues, “You didn’t remember me. Remember _us_.”

Clarke pauses to wipe her tears. “Mom flew in, and called in a lot of favours and consulted with her best colleagues. The surgeons and doctors performed a lot of tests. But it was inconclusive whether it’d be permanent. They didn’t think so, but couldn’t be sure.”

They stay quiet for awhile after that. Clarke looks just as lost as Lexa feels.

“It’s been two years,” Lexa states.

“Yes.”

“We’re married?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been in front of me all this time. Waiting?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Two years.”

“No, how long have we been married?”

“Two years, today. March 3rd.”

Clarke looks at her with so much hope, like maybe today’s date would prompt something, anything. Lexa doesn’t know what to do with that hope.

“The accident happened on our wedding day. God, it was like a bad tv show. My happiest moment turned into the worst pain I have ever felt. We had just taken our vows, and were about to make our way to the reception hall to celebrate.”

Lexa listens with a distant look, as if hearing someone else’s life story and not her own.

“You had rented this ridiculous Aston Martin, because you lost a bet to Raven and she thought our wedding day was the perfect time to collect on it.”

“Wait, Raven? Barista Raven?”

“Yes. You guys were college roommates. Anyways, after the ceremony, you went to pickup the car, it was supposed to be a surprise and a belated Bachelorette gag gift from Raven to me. I was coming out to meet you at the curb when I saw you turn into the intersection, and got T-boned by a semi. It came out of nowhere, none of us saw it. The entire scene was unbelievable.”

Clarke takes a deep breath. “The carnage completely devastating to look at. I couldn’t understand how I could feel so elated one second and for it to be hopelessly dashed away the next.”

Lexa doesn’t think she can hear any more, not yet, especially not with how broken Clarke looks and sounds. She’s struggling trying to keep her head from exploding. The headache is near unbearable. She needs to leave, even if this is her apartment.

“I’m sorry, I have to go.”

Lexa stands from the couch and moves to leave.

“What? No,” Clarke panics, rising from her seat too. She tries to intercept Lexa from reaching the door, pleading, “please don’t leave.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this right now. It’s too confusing.”

“Stay, please. I can help you understand. I’ll answer whatever questions you have.”

“I … I can’t,” Lexa shakes her head, while also trying to loosen from the hold Clarke has on her arm.

“Where will you go? This is your home,” Clarke tries to reason, her face completely contorted in pain at the prospect of losing Lexa again. The look twists Lexa’s insides.

“I … I don’t know but I have to leave.”

She manages to break free and is just about to open the door when Clarke whimpers, “please don’t leave me again.”

That halts Lexa’s hand mid-turn on the knob.

“Again?” She asks, with her back to Clarke.

“This was not the first time we met in the café. Our very first time was during freshman year. But more recently, last year you hit on me there, or at least tried to. You tripped over your feet before the words could come out.” Clarke chuckles through her tears. “I thought it was adorable. We talked after and it didn’t take long before we were dating.”

“What happened?”

“One day you walked back into the café, and didn’t remember me,” Clarke breathes out a humourless laugh, “again.”

Her hand is still on the door knob but Lexa does turn around to let Clarke explain further.

“The universe was really unkind on the day of your accident. Your hippocampus was also affected. In addition to the retrograde, you suffer from mild anterograde amnesia as well, the inability to create new memories. Again, it could be temporary but the doctors aren’t certain.”

“When?”

“They realised you had anterograde when you first introduced yourself to me and then forgot a few days later, and re-introduced yourself. It happened a few more times, but each time the span of memory retention would be longer. The café seems to be the one place that you can always remember, if not the people in it. After you were released from the hospital, you’d always go there.”

Clarke shifts on her feet when she explains the next bit.

“Raven had felt guilty about her role in your accident. Anya and I never blamed her for it. She wasn’t at fault for someone else’s idiocy. We should have all been celebrating not grieving something senseless because of someone else’s recklessness. It didn’t matter though, she carried the burden. Quit her engineering job and took over ownership of the café. It was her way of apologising to me,” Clarke chokes on a sob, “to watch over you when I couldn’t. To keep you safe.”

Lexa gives a weak smile. She had thought the barista was too smart and wondered what she was doing behind the counter and not under the hood of a car.

“You didn’t remember Raven but you would go to the café every other day, sometimes every day. Maybe because it was familiar to you. Doctors think that’s a good sign.”

Lexa should be happy for any silver linings but her thoughts are jumbled trying to work out the timeline.

“The last time we dated, when did I walk into the café and not remember you?” Lexa thinks she knows the answer but wants to hear it anyways.

“Six months ago,” Clarke whispers.

“When I bumped into you,” Lexa finishes for her.

Clarke nods and reveals the details of that fateful day. “We had a lunch date and then were going to go pick out new linens because I had started to stay over more often. When you bumped into me I was about to laugh it off as your clumsiness again, but then you looked at me as if we had never met before. Like you were searching trying to place who I was.”

Lexa remembers that day. It had felt like something had clicked into place but at the same time become out of reach. She feels overwhelmed again.

The urge to leave returns but this time she gives Clarke more of a warning. She steps closer to the blonde, who’s standing with arms folded around herself.

“I’m going to go, but I’m not leaving you,” Lexa says. “I just can’t stay here right now.” She kisses Clarke’s forehead to support her statement. She feels Clarke’s body shake under the weight of her gentleness.

“Can I … ?” Clarke looks at her lips, her gaze finishing the question.

Lexa brings her hand to Clarke’s cheek and wipes a tear away with her thumb. Her other hand moves to pull Clarke in closer by the back of her neck.

When their lips meet, it’s with shuddering breaths and relieved sighs as their mouths move together. Lexa had only intended it to be a short affair but Clarke’s kissing her like it might be their last time, pouring so much love into it, while fisting Lexa’s shirt, afraid letting go will mean goodbye.

The intensity and longing of the kiss makes Lexa want to stay and wrap Clarke in her arms and spend the rest of the evening making love to her. But her emotions are too raw right now, and her head is just pounding.

So, she tries to answer the silent plea with as much conviction as she can that this isn’t a goodbye. When they finally pull back, she promises that she will call.

And then Lexa leaves her ~~girlfriend~~ wife, tear-stained and broken, standing in her apartment.

—

It’s not two hours later that Lexa finds herself sitting on the floor in front of a mahogany door, at a different apartment. She had let her mind drift and her feet carry her wherever they wanted to go, her heart too heavy to make any decisions. The small victory is that her headache had subsided to a manageable murmur rather than a roar.

How she ends up across town at an apartment building that she’s never been to before she doesn’t know. But just like when she first met Clarke, at least the first time this go-round, there’s something familiar about this place. The doorman even gave her a nod and didn’t question her when she walked into the lobby and pressed the elevator button for the top floor.

She can’t pin it but the thrum of knowing is there, like it’s just one veil of curtain away from revealing itself.

The walls have a nice wainscotting detail, but otherwise generally nondescript and forgettable. Each door looks identical save for the metal unit number. The carpet is worn but well taken care off. Yet, something in the complete plainness of the setting is comforting to Lexa, so humdrum as though this hallway is a routine, common part of her everyday.

And then it happens.

Lexa’s world shifts on its axis again, for the second time that afternoon.

She’s fiddling with the wedding band, which she had forgotten to return to Clarke in her haste to leave, when suddenly the meaning of the inscription clicks into place.

 _Everyday_. _Someday_.

The inscription is a part of their vows.

The memories come like a film reel unspooling.

Lexa sees flashes of two white dresses, as the words—the whole of their vows—take shape in her mouth.

She remembers how when Clarke had walked in through the doors, stealing the air from the room, Lexa had felt the need to bow again on bended knee.

She remembers standing in front of each other, with the sunlight streaming from behind, and seeing her heart for the first time through the eyes of another. To understand what it meant to exist in that moment. Rare and beautiful. To see love reflected back at her a thousandfold of what she felt herself unable to express through gaze alone.

She remembers making promises to love and honour and cherish, to protect each other’s hearts and keep them safe. Promises of everyday laughter and happiness, comfort and warmth.

She remembers making rain checks for somedays. Someday we’ll buy that house, someday we’ll have children. Somedays that are filled with hot chocolate and soya lattes and reading bedtime stories to grandchildren.

Lexa’s about to say the vows aloud to herself when the ding of the elevator distracts her. She feels the hairs on her arm standing before she sees who emerges from the doors.

Her wife.

Clarke’s head is down and shoulders are haunched. She doesn’t see Lexa but is walking towards her unknowingly.

Lexa sees her through new and old eyes. Tired and weary, it’s clear that the weight of today and of the last two years have taken its toll on Clarke. But watching her take each laboured step—as hard as it seems to put one foot in front of the other, she does—Lexa can only feel the deepest swell of affection for the woman in front of her, for how brave and strong and resilient she is.

She can’t wait any longer.

“Clarke,” she says.

The blonde stills her movements, as if afraid to look up and find that the voice she heard isn’t from the person she wants it to belong to.

“Clarke, you were wrong,” Lexa says, hoping to get her to look up, “that apartment isn’t my home. This is.” Lexa gestures to the door behind, even though Clarke doesn’t see it, gaze still down. “You are. You’re the one. My everyday and someday.”

That finally gets Clarke to raise her head. The sheen in her eyes spills over.

“Lexa?” She asks on a shaky breath.

“Yes.” Outside of loving Clarke, this is the surest thing that Lexa has known in two years. She looks deeply into Clarke’s eyes, hoping her wife will find absolute certainty there.

There’s little warning before Clarke picks up her feet again, and launches herself at Lexa. “It’s you,” she whispers, crying into her neck.

Clarke’s entire body trembles under Lexa’s hands that have come to wrap tightly around her wife.

“I thought I lost you again.”

“You haven’t,” Lexa reassures as she holds out the ring. She takes Clarke’s hand and asks, “can I put this back where it belongs?”

Clarke nods, wiping her tears and says, “only if you wear this as well.” She pulls a hidden necklace out from under the collar of her scrub top. On its end is a ring identical to the one Lexa is about to place on her finger.

“You’ve carried it all this time?” Lexa hasn’t cried yet but seeing her ring hanging there, the tears finally fall.

“I needed to carry you with me,” Clarke explained, as she unclasps the necklace and removes the ring, “to keep you close.”

Without another word, they slip the rings on each other at the same time.

The kiss that follows feels like a reckoning, a realignment of where the universe had done them injustice.

Forever pressed into lips.

“I’m sorry I was gone for so long,” Lexa whispers into her wife’s ear when they hug after.

“But you’re here now.”

“But I’m here now.”

Holding Clarke in her arms, the chaos of the day finally settles for Lexa. She finally understands the feeling, what love is.

Familiar, and hers.

“Happy anniversary, love.”

“Happy anniversary, Lexa.”

—

 _I love you,_  
_and will love you_  
_from this shore  
_ _to the next._

_You are the one,_

_my just enough  
_ _my more than,_

 _my everyday  
_ _and someday,_

 _my peace  
_ _and safety,_

 _my always  
_ _and again._

 _Wherever you go_  
_I promise you,  
_ _I shall follow._

—

 

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the Clexa fandom, and to its amazing resilience.
> 
> (Also, FYI, all my medical knowledge comes from soaps. So, blame Susan Lucci if this was utterly implausible and completely contrived.)


End file.
